Gone
by SheynaLew
Summary: Philip wakes, alone in a field, no memory of who he is or where (or when) he comes from. With no knowledge of himself or his fellow Travelers, he must fight to remember as Mac and then team search desperately for him before he comes to harm.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** I hope to post once a week but I can't make any promises. This fic is fully plotted out with most chapters at a first-draft stage. In theory they require some editing and then can be posted, but I hope you'll stick with me until the end, even if I don't quite manage my self-imposed deadlines!

* * *

He knew it was day by the warmth on his skin as he lay there, unmoving on the hard, dry ground, though his eyes remained firmly shut. He could tell he was outside by the breeze lightly brushing his hair against his cheek and the smell of dirt invading his nostrils. He suspected he was alone, though he could not quite determine why. Perhaps the relative silence, other than the light breeze or the occasional bird cawing, far away. Or perhaps it was simply a sense he had. Nevertheless, he knew he would have to open his eyes eventually. He'd been asleep, he was sure of that. And the reluctance to open his eyes and face the world, the temptation to return once more to that slumber, was almost overpowering.

Instead he lifted one lid, slowly, barely, just a crack. And immediately closed it again. From the little he'd seen the sun shone down directly over him, bright, in a cloudless sky. He groaned and rolled himself on to his side. The motion caused a sharp stab of pain to pierce through his sinuses and he creased his eyes even more tightly closed. He tucked his knees up to his chin and brought a hand to his forehead, pinching his nose just between his eyes. He rubbed the pain away for a moment and tried again. One eye, open a little, with his hand shading the sun from assaulting his senses again. That was better. Still too bright, but better.

He wondered if perhaps he had a hangover. That would explain his inability to remember where he was. Or what had resulted in him waking up here. He opened the other eye. The ground below him was dry and dusty. He moved his hand from his face, and pushed himself up a little, turning to rest on his hands and knees. Everything seemed to spin and blur, and he let out a deep breath, trying not to be sick. Lifting his head a little, he looked directly ahead. The dusty dry ground, which was punctuated with small dots of green, stretched ahead to a tree line in the distance. He turned to either side, carefully, so as not to provoke another bout of nausea. More dusty grey with dots of green. With a sigh he forced himself to sit back on his heels and look over his shoulder. More of the same, and a shape breaking up the flat horizon. He squinted. It was a house, or a barn; a building of some kind. Perhaps that was where he'd come from?

He thought back, trying to remember the events that had led to him sleeping in the middle of a field. As he tried sorting through his memories a dull ache began to pulsate through his skull, radiating from his eyes and steadily getting more painful, until he was forced to cry out and clutch once more at his head. No memories had come to him. But, he thought as the pain slowly receded, not just no memories of the night before. He remembered nothing. Not his name. Not his life. Not even where in the world he might be.

It would be easy, he thought to himself, to panic right now. But oddly, he felt no fear, no anxiety. He was calm. Curious, certainly. Even confused. But not worried. He took a moment, allowing the pain to dissipate completely, before pushing himself to his feet and turning towards the building in the distance. His pace was slow, his legs trembling a little as he trudged forwards, dodging the cabbages (for he saw now that that was what the green dots in the field were) as he went.

* * *

As he drew closer to the building he saw that it was, in fact, a house. Chipped and faded, pale-blue paint flaked away from the wooden panels, and the mesh front over the door had rips in it. A window on the second storey was smashed, and the third step up to the veranda was broken. The place had an abandoned feeling about it, but for the beat-up old Chevy pick-up, parked at an angle in front of it. He approached and placed a hand on the hood; it was warm.

He heard a click to his left and looked up. An elderly man in overalls was standing on the veranda, holding a shogun on him. Like the house and the truck, the man was in disrepair. He was balding, with the few wisps of grey hair he did have flying at odd angles over the top of his head. His skin was blotchy and pock-marked, his eyes red-rimmed; no doubt a consequence of one too many whiskies. His hands were shaking slightly so that the gun was occasionally pointed just too far to the right to make his shot. And when he spoke, it was clear that he was missing at least one tooth.

"What you doin' out 'ere?" He demanded.

"I was lost. I don't know where 'here' is.' His hands were raised now, his face schooled into a calm and peaceful expression, trying to prove to the old farmer that he wasn't a threat.

"'Here' is my land, kid. What do you want?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Save your 'sorries'. What do you want?" He repeated.

"Help. I just want help. I don't remember anything. I don't know how I got here." He changed tactic, shifting from peaceful and placating to frightened and pathetic in an instant. He briefly wondered how he'd managed to measure the most appropriate responses and body-language to manipulate the farmer, but other issues were more pressing.

"Stan, he's just a kid. He looks scared." A soft, quiet voice called from behind the farmer, who turned.

"He could be an axe-murderer, May." Stan called to his wife.

"I'm not." He replied.

"Hmmph. An axe-murderer would say that."

"Maybe." He said. "But I don't have an axe." He lowered his hands and held them out in front of him.

May laughed, melodically, and stepped forwards to place a hand on her husband's shoulder. "He's a kid, Stan." She repeated. "Are you hungry, son?"

He thought for a moment. Was he hungry? His stomach ached. His legs were still weak as he stood before them, and his hands were shaking a little. He decided he was, and nodded.

"C'mon." She gestured towards the house.

He looked once more at Stan, tilting his head to the side and trying to look concerned.

"He won't hurt you. _Will_ you, Stan?" She peered pointedly at her husband, who lowered his gun.

"No. But just know I'm armed and if you try anythin' that'll be the end of yer." Stan growled.

"Yessir." He nodded emphatically.

Stan and May walked into the house, and he followed, carefully missing the damaged step.

* * *

The inside of the house was in slightly better condition than the outside. It was clean, and whilst the fittings and appliances were clearly old, they appeared much more well cared for than the outside of the house and the truck. Stan had taken a seat at the little square table in the corner. May was at the oven, pulling out a dish.

"I hope you like chicken pot pie." She smiled.

He smiled back and nodded. Then frowned, "Are you sure you have enough, ma'am?" He was pleased with himself for the "ma'am"; it played well into May's argument that he was just a kid. He was appearing respectful and concerned, and it seemed to go down well with both May and Stan.

"She always makes too much." Stan grunted.

"There's enough. You just wash up and take a seat across from Stan." May smiled.

He headed for the sink and ran the cooling water over his hands. He hadn't noticed how dirty they were, how dirty he must be, until he saw the water run brown into the sink. As it cleared, May handed him a soft pink cloth and he dried his hands. He looked down at his clothes and saw mud caked into his trousers and top. He looked up apologetically; this time genuinely, and with no intent to manipulate a response from his hosts.

"It's alright son. You can have a wash after you've eaten."

He smiled and took a seat at the table. Whilst the temptation was to make an immediate grab for the pie, now that he had realised his hunger, he forced himself to sit patiently and wait. May grabbed his hand and he flinched back, startled. She squeezed it and he looked curiously at her. She was holding Stan's hand too and her head was bowed. So was Stan's. As she began to speak she peered up at him and he immediately copied them.

"In a world where so many are hungry, may we eat this food with humble hearts. In a world where so many are lonely may we share this friendship with joyful hearts. Amen."

"Amen." Repeated Stan, and "Amen" he copied a moment later.

May dropped their hands and made a grab for his plate, heaping on servings of the steaming pie until it almost filled it. She did the same for Stan, and a smaller plate for herself. Stan immediately began eating, shovelling large forkfuls of chicken and carrots into his mouth, little droplets of gravy spattering his chin. May glared at him, and he grabbed a napkin and began taking smaller bites.

"Well!" She declared. "I'm Mavis…May. And this is Stanley. What's your name, son?" May was asking him as he raised a fork towards the plate, but he barely heard her. A voice was calling in his ear and he spun around to see who was behind him.

The kitchen was empty. He pushed himself away from the table, dropping the fork onto his plate with a clatter as the voice spoke once more, and stared intently out of the window. No one was outside.

"Son, are you ok?" May was at his side, her hand on his shoulder and concern etched into her face.

"I…I…" He stammered, and the voice continued calling. He shook his head. "Y…yes. I'm…I'm alright. Sorry." He allowed her to lead him back to the table and he took a seat.

She looked concerned, but persisted with her original question. "What's your name?"

The voice in his ear repeated one last time, _"Philip, where are you?"_

Unsure where it was coming from, if it was even directed at him, he latched onto the only name he could now think of. "I…I'm Philip."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you so much for reading! Feedback (positive exclamations of enjoyment, or constructive criticism) are appreciated. I want to improve as a writer so I really do like to hear what has or hasn't worked for readers.

Thanks again, Sheyna


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes - Thank you to all who read the last Chapter. I hope you enjoy this one too. I expect to have around 7 to 9 chapters to post in total, but constant editing might change that! For now, this is Chapter 2!**

* * *

"Philip, where are you?" Mac demanded, removing his finger from the com-point behind his ear.

"He could be anyw…" began Carly, but stopped as Mac held up a hand to silence her, listening intently for a reply.

"Philip?" He shook his head at the lack of response.

"He could be anywhere." Carly repeated.

"He wouldn't just take off without telling one of us." Trevor insisted.

Marcy looked uncomfortable. His behaviour had certainly improved following his little stint with Jenny and that unidentified drug, but she couldn't help thinking something like this was bound to happen eventually.

"What?" Mac was looking quizzically at her.

"No, it's nothing." She replied.

"Well, you were thinking something. Do you think he's relapsed? Run off to find a dealer?"

She thought about it. "No. Not really. That drug Jenny gave him really did seem to wean him off it, when he actually used it properly. And with her gone I can't think where he'd get more of that from." She wanted to believe what she was saying, wanted to think the best of Philip, despite what his host's body was clearly vulnerable towards. She couldn't deny the nagging doubt in her mind, but she was determined not to let Mac see that. Philip was one of them, part of the team. Something else had to be going on.

"Ok, so we need to turn this place over and find out where he's gone. If he was taken by force or if he left of his own free will." Said Carly, and she stalked off towards Philip's bedroom. Turning around to see the others merely staring at her she put a hand on her hip and gestured to the rest of the room. "Well! Come on then!"

The group split up, taking separate areas of the garage to examine and hunting for some sign of where Philip might have gone. Trevor was at the table which held Poppy's tank, and he peered down at the tiny turtle with a bemused expression on his face. He wanted to reassure the little creature, and he smiled a little as he thought of how Philip would speak to her as if she were human and could understand every word he said. Philip had been missing for 3 days, no message, no contact at all. Poppy must be hungry, he thought. And then wondered what Philip fed her. "Sorry, Poppy. We'll find him."

As he turned to move on to another part of the room something by the tank caught his eye. A triangle of white, standing out against the darkness of the table. There was a piece of paper tucked under the tank, and Trevor mentally kicked himself for not noticing it earlier. He tugged it away and immediately recognised the writing as Philip's.

"Erm…guys…" He called when he'd finished reading the note. Mac looked up.

"What have you got?"

"He's on a mission."

Mac and Carly came over to him. Carly took the note and read it herself before handing it to Mac.

"This still doesn't explain why he isn't answering us." She retorted.

"No…" Said Mac, thoughtfully. "Not really." He handed the note to Marcy as she joined them.

She read it aloud. "Mac, I'm sorry to have vanished like this without contacting you first, but the Messenger that I received said the mission was with immediate effect. I'm not to tell any of you where I've gone or what I'm doing, but I wanted you to know I'd be out of contact for a couple of days. I should be back by Tuesday. Please can someone feed Poppy. There are some carrots in the drawer. Philip."

"It's Wednesday." Said Carly.

"Yes. Said Mac. "But he does say 'should be back by Tuesday', not 'will be'." Though he looked concerned too.

"He may not be answering because his mission isn't complete yet." Said Trevor.

"Or he's injured and can't respond. How long before we go looking for him?" Carly asked Mac.

"We can't interfere if he's on a mission." Mac replied, and Carly glowered at him. "But we'll give it until tomorrow morning and try contacting him again.

* * *

" _Philip?"_ He heard again, and looked once more over his shoulder.

May peered at him. "Are you ok, Philip?" She asked kindly.

He turned back to her, still confused. "Yes. Sorry. It's a good pie, ma'am." She was still looking concerned, so he tried to appear a little more casual. "I just thought I heard something outside."

That clearly did not have the effect he'd hoped for; May and Stan exchanged a nervous glance.

He tried smiling at them, which seemed to ease some of the tension. There was silence for a few minutes, until May broke it again with more questions. Questions he wished he could answer for himself, just as much as for the couple who had taken him in.

"You say you don't know how you got to be here?" She prompted.

"Erm, no. I really am sorry for trespassing."

"Oh, now, that's ok." She said as Stan grunted. "Where did you come from, though?"

He stalled for a moment, putting another forkful of pie in his mouth and chewing whilst he tried to think of an answer. "Town." He said, and it seemed to appease her a little, though clearly not her husband.

"That's quite a way to have come and not remember." Said Stan, suspiciously. "Drunk, were you?"

"Stan, don't be so judgemental." May said, placing a hand on both of their arms. "You were young too, once."

Stan grunted again.

"Sorry. I won't stay too long. I've imposed too much already." Said Philip, intentionally keeping his voice soft and his eyes down on the table. He almost felt ashamed for playing the wounded-puppy card, but if it got him back to civilisation he would get past it.

"Oh now, you're not walking all that way. You can get cleaned up and we'll take you back to town."

"I couldn't possibly ask you to do that. You've done enough already just by taking me in."

"Don't be silly, son. We'd have done it for anyone. Now it'll be getting dark soon, so why don't you get cleaned up after dinner, sleep here for the night and we'll run you back home when Stan heads into town to pick up some more fertiliser tomorrow."

Philip began to protest again, but May raised her hand. "Now, I won't hear another word. Get that pie finished and I'll show you to the shower."

He curled the corner of his mouth up and nodded slightly. "Thank you." And he really did mean it.

* * *

Carly waited until she was alone in the house. Jeffrey had taken the baby for a bath before putting him to bed. She touched the skin of her neck, just behind her ear, and whispered "Philip?"

She knew she was disobeying a direct order from Mac, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right, and one thing she'd learnt lately; her feelings weren't often wrong. As darkness fell on the house, and she turned on a lamp, a nagging sense of worry had pulled at her chest. She understood that he hadn't told them what the mission was, and that he'd clearly had to rush off to complete it. But she couldn't work out why he wouldn't have communicated with them, even briefly, to let them know he was ok.

"Philip?" She tried again. Nothing. "Philip, if you can hear me, just contact us as soon as you can, ok? I'm...we're getting worried about you."

Jeffrey opened the door to the bathroom. "Are you on the phone?"

"What?" She asked. "No."

Jeffrey looked confused and returned to the bathroom, closing the door again.

"Please, Philip." She whispered.

* * *

Standing in the shower, warm water hitting his head, running down his face and body, turning brown before it hit the floor as it pushed the dirt from his hair and skin, Philip allowed himself a moment to think again. The food had helped with the headache, and he felt more able to string a few thoughts together without getting dizzy. He tried to think back beyond waking up in the field, clutching for any fragments of memory. As he tried to push past the blank spaces of nothingness a stabbing sensation pulsed through his eyes to the back of his head. "Argh!" He cried out clutching his face.

The moment he stopped trying to remember, the pain began to ebb away. His eyes still tightly closed, he rubbed at his face.

" _Philip?"_ He heard again, though it could just have been the rush of water. He turned it off and grabbed a towel. He was almost dry when he heard it again, just a whisper, soft, female this time. _"Philip?"_ But maybe it was May, he thought, and peered out into the hall. There was no one there.

"May?" He called. There was no answer. But then he heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Are you alright?" She asked him and then stopped. "Oh, gosh, I am sorry. Here, let me get you some of Stan's clothes to borrow for the night." And she scuttled off into one of the rooms off the hallway. But Philip hadn't been listening to her. The woman's voice, which was different, he realised, than May's, was still whispering to him and he was straining to hear her.

" _Philip, if you can hear me, just contact us as soon as you can, ok? I'm...we're getting worried about you."_

"Who are you?" He whispered back.

"What, son?" Said May, sticking her head round the door. "Are you alright with these?" And she walked out handing him an undershirt and sweatpants that looked like they'd never been worn.

He took them, still confused, peering behind May, then turning his head to look over his own shoulder.

"Are you sure you're ok?"

"Did you hear that?" He demanded, wild eyed.

"Hear what, son?" She cocked her head, confused.

"The woman, whispering!"

May looked a little frightened now. "N…no son. I didn't hear a woman. Perhaps you're tired. Why don't I set up the couch for you? I hope that's ok. I'd let you stay in the spare room, but the window's broken and Stan's not gotten round to fixing it yet."

Philip looked around again, then tried to focus on the conversation with May. "Yes. Yes, that's great. Thank you." As she turned around he pulled on the sweatpants, and undershirt, not caring that they were too big.

She led him downstairs, still talking, but he wasn't really listening. "Some nasty little person tried to break in a few days ago. Climbed up the drain pipe like some kind of monkey, smashed the window and ran off. Stan thinks he was on drugs or something, climbing up the house like that. Hell of a way to come just to rob someone though."

Philip nodded politely as she lay a quilt out on the sofa and plumped up the pillows, but he was listening intently for the voice again, sure now that it was talking to him.

There was nothing for a few minutes, then as he thanked May and she turned to go back up the stairs, the voice came back and he was sure he recognised it; _"Please, Philip."_

"You must have heard that!" He demanded of May, the stabbing pain suddenly back as he struggled to remember the source of the voice. Lights flashed in front of his eyes, and, though he couldn't remember crossing the room, he was suddenly standing directly in front of May, hands on her shoulders, shaking her. "Tell me who she is!" He was shouting.

"Let her go, kid!" Stan was at the top of the stairs, bellowing at him, but Philip had already begun to let go of May. He felt himself push her, though he'd had no intention of doing so, saw Stan rush to his wife's side, as he ran for the door.

Outside, barefoot, he headed straight for the pick-up truck, yanked open the door and hopped in. The keys weren't in the ignition, but a spark of inspiration led him to check the sun visor, and when he pulled it down a single solitary key fell into his lap. As he got the truck started, Stan came barrelling out of the house, shot gun once again in hand. Philip pulled the truck around and sped off as a shot went into the tree to the right of him. Pain still throbbed through his head, but he forced himself to focus on driving, getting back to the road, to civilisation, and, with any luck, to answers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes - Thank you to all who read the first two chapters. This one's a little short, but things are starting to get troublesome for Philip! I hope you enjoy Chapter 3. As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated. Chapter 4 should be up by the end of next week.**

The truck trundled down the dusty lane, into the darkness, away from the house and the kindly couple who had taken him in. Philip gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white and sharp fingernails curving around the plastic to dig into his hand. He forced himself to focus on the pain, not to let himself be pulled into the swirl of confusion threatening to overwhelm him. The truck hit a slight bump in the track and veered towards the field. He swung the wheel to the left and back onto the track towards the main road he saw coming up in the distance.

He tried not to dwell on May and Stan, tried not to wonder whether May was hurt after he'd shoved her out of the way to escape the house. He tried instead to focus solely on driving the truck, on getting to civilisation. But he found it impossible not to question what might be happening to him. He'd heard voices, as real as if there was a person speaking right beside him. And he was so sure, so positive that what he was hearing was real, that the blank stares and confusion May gave him in response to his insistence that she must hear the voices too had angered him. Though the sensation of anger felt alien to him, as though whomever he had been before he had awoken in the field rarely experienced such anger. The feeling only served to make him more uncomfortable.

As he drove on, he calmed a little, and began to rationally analyse what had happened. He'd heard voices, he was sure of that. And it was not simply that May denied hearing them too that had angered him, but the thought that he was imagining them. He was absolutely certain that what he'd heard was real. The first voice had been a man; he'd recognised it, though he couldn't quite place it. The voice, though not commanding at the time, had made him think of orders, of responsibility. The second voice had been a woman. Compassionate but firm, and he'd felt his heart warm a little on hearing it, but he couldn't place why. These were not just random voices in his head; he _knew_ them. Had he left the source of the voices back at the farmhouse? He hadn't heard them since leaving. Should he go back?

No. He thought of Stan and his shotgun, of the anger he'd directed at May. He couldn't go back. They'd let him into their home, fed him, allowed him to stay, though they had no idea who he was, and he'd repaid their kindness with an attack. He doubted they'd understand if he tried to explain. No. It was better that he move on. And hopefully he'd hear the voices again.

He'd reached the main road; a sign at the junction appeared to point towards what he hoped was a town. He turned left towards it and after another ten minutes of driving shops, offices and a more urban landscape unfolded before him.

Darkness had truly set at this point, and Philip found himself exhausted. Perhaps the adrenaline from his outburst had worn out. He pulled down a dark side-street, between a Chinese restaurant and a convenience store, turned the engine off and pushed the seat back until he was reclining. He'd just get a few hours of rest, and then he'd begin the search for the source of the voices.

Carly hung her head. No response from Philip, despite her pleas. She supposed she shouldn't have expected an answer, if Mac hadn't managed to get through to him either.

Jeff poked his head back around the door. "Jeff Junior's asleep." He said, not quite quietly enough for her liking, and he slid back into the living room.

"Good." She replied, carefully schooling her face so that any trace of worry disappeared.

"So…" He started, and she knew he was angling for something. "I know I said I could take him all day tomorrow, but I really need to go into work."

It was the presumptive way he said it that set her off. "No Jeff." She closed her eyes.

"C'mon Carly, you can take one day off."

"No, Jeff. I can't. I'm going to be out all day tomorrow. I _need_ you to take him." She tried to calm her voice; whilst she wanted to yell at him about responsibilities and broken promises, she knew by now that she'd get further if she played it nice.

"I thought you were only working a half day anyway?"

"No, I'm in all day. Look, please Jeff, it's really important." She could feel him getting angry, tell that he was trying to relax, so she sat still and quiet.

He breathed out, slowly, in a way that suggested reigning in his temper was taking a great deal of effort. "Ok. But you owe me." He didn't wait for her thanks. Just stood up and walked out.

She hoped he'd actually be back in the morning to take the baby. Or she'd have to take Junior looking for Philip too. She wanted to call him again, but it would do no good spending the night fruitlessly trying to get in contact. If she was going to find him, she'd need to go looking, and for that she'd need her sleep. She sighed and pulled herself off the couch to get ready for bed.

Philip woke to sunlight shining in through the truck's rear window, reflecting off the rear-view mirror and into his eye. He groaned and stretched his arms behind him. It took a moment for him to work out that he was in a truck. For some reason he'd had an image of a garage right before he'd opened his eyes, but he had no idea why. No memories had come to him in the night, and he'd heard no more voices. His stomach grumbled and he realised he was starving. He pulled the chair upright and began rummaging in the glove compartment and under the seats, hoping to find some loose change. He came up with a crumpled receipt and a stale French fry, but no change. His stomach grumbled again. Part of him immediately thought of the convenience store to the side of where he'd parked the truck. And the other part of him felt immediately guilty. The hungry side won, and justified it to the guilty side with the argument that he couldn't remember who he was; he had no idea if he was a good person or not, but right now he was a hungry person, and that could easily be fixed.

It must still have been early; there were very few people on the street behind him. He hoped this would work to his advantage if he planned on liberating some snacks from the store; fewer people about, fewer people to notice him stealing. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. His blondish, chin-length hair was scruffy from a night sleeping in a truck. At least he was cleaner than he'd been yesterday though, he thought. He ran his fingers through his hair a few times, trying to make himself look a little more respectable.

On opening the truck door he realised he had no shoes on. So much for looking respectable. He made a note to try and get hold of some shoes as well. But food first. He took the keys from the ignition and slid onto the tarmac, trying to avoid the few shards of broken glass which littered the floor. He locked the driver's door, pocketed the keys and made his way to the main street. It was empty; the eerie quiet only present so early in the morning almost deafening in a strange way. He pushed open the door to the convenience store, and immediately felt his heart leap into his throat as a bell tinkled above him. Shit, so much for subtle!

He glanced down the aisles at the checkout counter; a tiny, ancient man squinted and smiled at him. Philip waved, nervously. Straight away he knew he'd get no shoes here, but at the very least he could get some food. He ducked down another aisle, out of sight of the till. Bars of chocolate and bags of candy lined this aisle. Not exactly a well-rounded diet, but beggars couldn't be choosers, he decided, and began loading chocolate into his pant pockets. The bell tinkled behind him, and he immediately stopped what he was doing and made for the exit, passing a middle-aged man in a suit, with his arm around a younger woman. The pair looked at his bulging pockets with suspicion, but carried on to begin their shopping.

Once outside, he made immediately for the truck, unloading the haul onto the passenger seat, and tearing one bar open with his teeth. Half-way through the second bar he began to wish he'd stolen some water too. He glanced the couple from the store walking past the alleyway, saw them notice the truck, and considered getting out of town, further away from the farm. It occurred to him that May and Stan had probably reported him, and their missing truck, to the police and mentally kicked himself for not ditching his getaway vehicle last night. Better late than never though, he thought, and began stuffing the chocolate back into his pockets. First, he'd get shoes, then he'd get another car. He hopped down from the driver's seat and felt his heart sink. Into the opening of the alleyway walked two police officers. He considered running for a moment, but the realisation that he had nowhere to go hit him like a tonne of bricks. Instead he put his hands into the air and turned as one of the officers pushed him down onto the hood of the truck.


End file.
